Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption

by Jo Richardson

  She huffs out, almost amused, and shakes her head.

  No Dirty Harry complex. Check.

  “Used to live in a bad neighborhood, maybe?”

  The smile dwindles and she clears her throat.

  Getting closer.

  “No wait, don’t tell me. I know this one. You and your girlfriends got together and took one of those defense classes and got all fucking high on the power and─”

  “It’s none of your fucking business, Stiles!”

  When she stops to face me, abruptly, her eyes are glassy. That’s enough to catch me off guard, but then I notice her quivering chin to boot.

  Combined with the fact that the tone in her voice just went from uncomfortably playful to defensively agitated, I know.

  It’s personal, not professional.

  Options blow through my mind in an instant.

  Kidnapping.

  Mugging.

  Abuse.

  Rape.

  That last one gives me pause. I search her thoughtful gaze for something that will cross it off the list, but there’s nothing. So, I make an attempt to verbally nix the idea of some sort of abusive situation.

  “How bad?”

  Wait, that wasn’t where I was going with this.

  “None.” She swallows down some anger.

  “Did you know him?” Stop getting personal, Stiles.

  “Of.”

  “Did he stalk you?” ‘Cause I can identify with that fuckery.

  “Your.”

  “Did he…” I can’t even finish my fucking sentence this time.

  “Business.” She looks away at something on a rack after she says the last word. She wipes her face, and it’s pretty clear the door is shut. She’s not entertaining my curiosity any more this evening.

  And I’m not in the mood to push the subject further, if I’m being completely honest.

  Something unexpected rises up inside me as leftover ideas of what might have happened to her swirl around in my brain.

  Compassion.

  I feel the urge to punch something.

  Really fucking hard.

  “Green.” Her name floats off of my lips. I’m not even sure why I say it, except I can’t leave shit like this.

  Slowly, she looks up at me. Naïveté plays at the edges of her eyes reminding me of the first day I met her.

  At first, I believed I was gonna try and lighten the mood by giving her one last dig for the night, free of charge. But now, as I stand here witnessing her vulnerability, I’m more inclined to offer up some professional advice. And maybe a little bit of personal guidance is thrown in there, too.

  “You might wanna think about getting a waistband holster.” I whisper into her ear. Just our little secret. “Easier to get to and quicker on the draw.”

  She pulls away from me, but not wholeheartedly. It’s more like she’s not sure if I’m serious or kidding.

  My heart is about to beat itself right the fuck out of my chest.

  The moment is quickly turning meaningful between the two of us and it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. I sense a crack in the carefully constructed universe I’ve created, originally full of animosity toward the woman.

  I’m not at all sure what the hell to do with it.

  So I end the conversation here.

  “Later, Green.”

  I give her a half-smile and leave for a register as far away from where we’re standing as possible.

  And damn, I really need that drink right about now.

  X X X

  By the time Stix and I get to Tricky’s place, I’ve made several attempts to push the potentially dark and twisted back story of Emma Green out of my mind. And failed.

  When I see Tricky waiting for us outside, the Target store moment is forgotten. For now.

  Tricky paces with one arm tucked into the other as he chews on his thumbnail. A habit he’s had for as long as I can remember. It makes him come off like a jittery rabbit as opposed to a down to business bail-bondsman.

  “I don’t think this is the best idea, Stiles.” I’m not even out of the damn car when he tells me he’s changed his mind.

  “Relax.” He’s a little dramatic sometimes.

  “No, I mean, guess who paid me a visit within five minutes of me getting off the phone with you.”

  “Santa Claus?” I can’t help it sometimes.

  “Very funny.”

  “Okay, I give.” Now Stix is curious, as he gets out of the car.

  “None other than the man himself.”

  That gives me pause, as well as the kid.

  “Thomas?”

  “S’right. And he was askin’ questions, too.” He rubs his unshaven face with a rough hand and eyes Stix suspiciously.

  Add paranoia on top of nervousness and you’ve got an unstable human being. Ricky’s teetering on the edge with this shit. And can I just add, that’s some damn coincidence, Thomas dropping by.

  “About what?”

  “Wantin’ to know if maybe I heard something about what happened to that Leary kid. Like a name, maybe.”

  “But you haven’t, so…” No problemo. Am I right?

  “I told him that, Stiles. But…” he leans in and whispers out of the side of his mouth. “He was suspicious.”

  Ricky’s always been a look-over-your-shoulder kinda guy. I’ve always thought he was slightly off his rocker, good guy as he is. But something in my gut tells me to pay attention this time. Not that Stix would be in danger, necessarily, even if Thomas did run into him somewhere. Because, like I said, it’s not really his style to hold grudges against anyone but the person who did him wrong.

  Let’s say it wasn’t Thomas who had Donnie offed. Maybe that person does hold grudges that extend outward from the offending person. Maybe Thomas is working with that person. Maybe he stands to make some money off of turning the kid in.

  I’m not down with that.

  I peek over at Stix. The kid looks like he’s gonna hurl.

  I’m pretty much fucked here. You know that, right?

  I mean I can’t very well leave him here. Not with my spidey senses tingling and shit, and particularly not after I already made the mistake of leaving one Leary with the wrong people.

  There really isn’t anywhere else to put him up. It’s not like my brother is keen on keeping runaways in his home. Not with a family he’s responsible for, anyway. And Green…

  Jesus. I don’t even know why her name popped into my head like that. What in the ever loving hell is wrong with me today?

  Ricky paces some more while he keeps watch, up and down the street, to make sure no one else is getting ready to give him a surprise visit.

  Stix strides over to me and turns around so Ricky can’t hear him. “You’re not really gonna make me stay here, are you, Jackson?”

  Me?

  I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to find that calming spirit somewhere inside me.

  Who am I kidding? There’s no calming fucking anything inside me right now.

  “No.” I grab the kid by the arm and lead him back to the car. “Later, Tricky.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says in a hurry. “Good idea. I’m here for you, Stiles, you know that, but this is…”

  “No worries, Trick. Just keep a lid on the intel, okay?” Not that I doubt he will, but it never hurts to reiterate that shit.

  He nods and waves and wrings his hands as I drive off with the kid in tow. Still.

  One night.

  I can deal with one night.

  I GIVE

  IT’S A LONG RIDE back to my place.

  My fingers itch for a smoke. Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s the lungs. It’s always the lungs. They ache for it. My head itches for something else. Something that will explain to me how and why I’m continuing to dig myself into a hole I might not be able to get out of.

  I don’t need a smoke.

  I don’t need a smoke.

  Dammit. I need a smoke.

  It occurs to me that
I could easily put this kid up in some cheap ass motel somewhere, buy him a bus ticket even, and be done with this shit.

  It also occurs to me, though, that whenever I pull a Pontius Pilate, bad things happen.

  Go the fuck home, Mikey.

  See ya, kid.

  I don’t know if my conscience could handle another death on my hands this week. Year. Decade. Whatever.

  Temporary roommate it is.

  “Dude, this place is a shit hole.” Stix laughs. I however, am not finding that shit funny.

  “Is that a thank you?” I will put his ass out, swear to God, if he keeps it up. “’Cause I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t have any other options right now.”

  Neither do I.

  “Sorry.” He says it in that way only a teenager can. You know the one that makes you think they aren’t fucking sorry at all.

  “Jeez.” He’s out of breath. “Why the top floor?” I’m guessing he isn’t big on the whole exercise scene if he can’t even handle three flights of stairs.

  “Maybe you’d rather sleep in the gutter down by the precinct?” It’s always good to remind them of their options.

  The kid is mum after that. Until he sees the cat.

  “This is Frodo. Don’t go in for a scratch too fast. He hates needy.”

  “Gotcha. Hey there, big guy.” He indeed goes in for the scratch and almost loses an eye. I give him the old did you not fucking hear what I just said look and he backs off, keeping a close watch on Frodo the whole time.

  “Okay, look.” I point down the hall. “There’s the toilet. There’re leftovers in the fridge somewhere. Don’t fucking touch anything other than food.” I need a goddamn shower. And a shot of something hard.

  X X X

  After I’ve washed the day away and I’m beelining it for a shot of Patron with a Stella chaser, I realize what an idiot I am. You never tell a kid not to touch anything. It’s the one surefire way to get them to touch every-fucking-thing.

  “Dude. You know Wii is for kids, right?” Stix is buried in games. He’s got a nunchaku in one hand and a controller in the other.

  He found my emergency stash, otherwise known as the nephew entertainment system. So, yeah, of course it’s for kids. He doesn’t need to know my business, though.

  Sitting on the back of the couch, watching him in earnest, is the fucking cat.

  “Some watchdog you are.” Frodo mews at me and flicks his tail as if to say, whatever dumbass, you’re the one who left him in charge. And he’s right. Who gives some punk off the street access to their home, then leaves them to their own devices?

  Me. That’s who.

  “YES! Got him!” Stix lets the Wii remote drop to the floor then throws his hands up into the air in victory.

  I should have taken the necessary precautions to ensure the kid wouldn’t get into anything he shouldn’t be getting into.

  I’m the idiot here.

  Only, I’m not. Because I did take the fucking precautions. The same ones I take every other goddamn day.

  “How’d you get into my closet, Jimmy?” The one with the lock on it. The one I always keep locked.

  “Oh. That reminds me.” He pulls out of his pocket a contraption that suspiciously looks like it used to be my door knob. “You really should upgrade your locks. That stuff you’ve got on your doors is at least fifteen years old.”

  “You’re fifteen years old.” Little shit.

  “Seventeen.”

  Smartass.

  I pick up an empty diet Dr. Pepper can on my way to the hall closet.

  “Use a fucking coaster next time.” I wipe the sweat from his drink off the table with my sleeve and toss the can, free throw style, into the recycle bin before grabbing a pillow and blanket for the kid.

  He mumbles an apology.

  “And lights out in T-minus thirty minutes.” I mighta said sixty had he not put a water ring on my coffee table. Or broke my goddamn door.

  “Come on, really?”

  The bedding I pull out of the hall closet hits the couch like a three-pointer lands the net.

  Swish, motherfucker.

  “I’m finding you a place to stay tomorrow until we can get you outta Dodge.”

  “But-”

  “End of story, kid. I have shit to do. I can’t be distracted with your pubescent-like tendencies at all hours of the goddamn night.” His shoes look like they’ve been kicked off mid-stride. I amend that problem immediately and set them side by side at the door.

  “And why in the hell haven’t you changed into something dry, yet?” I grab the bag of clothes I brought in and throw it to him. “There’s what might be construed as PJs in there.” He opens it up and starts rummaging through it. “Otherwise known as sweats.”

  He pulls out the jeans I purchased and gives them a pointedly disgusted look.

  “What are these?”

  “Isn’t that what all the kids are wearing these days?”

  His face scrunches up.

  “What?”

  He drops the jeans that the saleslady specifically fucking told me was a hot ticket item this year.

  I should have known.

  Skinny-legged kids don’t actually want their legs to be seen as skinny.

  “It’s gonna have to suffice for now.”

  Or at least until tomorrow.

  It has to.

  As Stix continues to judge every item I bought him, I grab the laptop, the mouse, some folders, and a certain bottle of alcoholic beverage I need before heading to the bedroom. I turn the lights out as I go, hearing Stix huff and puff and curse my name all the while.

  Poor kid. I’m the least of his problems.

  X X X

  Angry, empty eyes jolt me out of a deep sleep. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve woken up in my bed, and as a strange added twist, I kinda miss seeing the old hand-drawn superhero hanging on my wall, first thing.

  Morning, Mikey.

  The fact that the side of my face is stuck to my laptop keyboard tells me I dozed off in the middle of searching for articles relating to Donnie Leary’s death, and henceforth, relatives that might be looking for his brother. The blinding light that’s sneaking in through the window suggests it’s morning.

  I check the time.

  And I’m fucking late. Again.

  “Shit.”

  Kill me now.

  No time to figure out where to put the kid. I completely fucking forgot about the court required appointment that awaits me halfway across Redemption.

  I swap my boxers for a clean pair and slip some jeans on that haven’t made it into the washing machine yet. Don’t worry. They smell fine.

  On my way out the door, I start to wake up the kid but think better of it at the last minute. Instead, I write my cell number down onto a sticky note and mention not to call unless it’s an absolute emergency.

  You never know who’s watching the cell tower pings.

  I also mention there’s some bread on the counter and some peanut butter in the cabinet. You know, in case he’s hungry when he wakes up.

  I’m considerate like that.

  On the way downtown, I ask myself, why would the Redemption police attend Donnie Leary’s funeral? And what in the hell would they want with his brother? Typically, once a gangbanger is dead, he’s no more than an afterthought to the cops. They aren’t really big on offering condolences to next of kin. They’re just glad to be rid of one more street thug.

  So why the interest now?

  Remorse, meanwhile, eats away at me as I mull it all over.

  Don’t leave me with these guys.

  I can’t shake the thought that had I not left Donnie with those dicks in the first place, I wouldn’t have his delinquent little brother making a mess of my apartment right now.

  Shake it off, Stiles.

  He’ll be gone tonight. I’ll get a hit on some relatives and send him off, and we can get back to the status quo immediately thereafter.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself
.

  My stop approaches and I slow to a crawl before I shift the car into park. I take a nice, long deep inhale before getting out. I exhale as I shut the car door.

  I’ll worry about Donnie and the kid later. Right now, I gotta see a lady about some temper tantrums I may or may not have had during a trial a few months back.

  It might have involved the judge’s gavel breaking.

  I don’t know.

  Moving on.

  I head inside to see Doctor Likes-to-talk-my-fucking-ear-off. I mean, damn, you’d think she was the one looking for healing or some shit.

  Last time I was here, I found out more than I ever wanted about herbs and spices that soothe your spirit.

  Like my fucking spirit needs soothing.

  One long exaggerated step at a time, I climb my way up to the fourth floor of my psychotherapist’s building. When I get there, I hope and pray she’s been called to some petty ass meeting with one of her petty ass colleagues so I can go the fuck home and make sure Jimmy isn’t breaking anything. Or breaking into anything.

  Sadly, she’s waiting for me in the reception area like a hungry lioness ready to clamp down onto my jugular.

  “Morning.” I’m a chipper motherfucker as I wink at the young woman behind the desk. At least, she thinks I am.

  She blushes, but then I find Doctor Who-does-she-think-she-is-anyway’s dark eyes glaring at me from behind the humanoid she possesses. She’s not amused.

  Check.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Stiles.” She spins around to head into her office, assuming I’ll follow. Which, technically, I guess I have to.

  I give the receptionist a look of horror as I step in line behind the woman in charge. She giggles and disappears behind the book she’s reading. The good doctor slams her office door behind me.

  “I’ve got shit to do, Lana.”

  “What you’ve got to do is pass this psychological evaluation. Without that, the rest is all for naught.”

  I spit out a chuckle as I take a seat across from her desk. “All for naught? Seriously?”

  Doctor Pompous rolls her eyes and sits. She arranges her pencils, which are already fucking straight by the way, into a tidy row across her desk calendar before clasping her fingers together. She grants me that condescending know-it-all glare, and then we begin.